


Gonna Blow Your Mind

by Yuval25



Series: A Tall, Dark Stranger [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, And he's got a safe word too, Bets & Wagers, Brothers, But it's his fault, Fluff, Hot, I'm rambling..., John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Kink Contemplation, Kinkchesters, Kissing, Look what you did man, M/M, Nakedness, Pain, Painkillers, Poor Sam, Romance, Safewords, Sex, Smut, Spanking, Stanford Era, Wincest - Freeform, but he likes it..., just read it, so it's okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 08:01:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10635657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuval25/pseuds/Yuval25
Summary: "Dean," Sam groans, worn out and stupidly in love as he buries his face in the soft, white pillow beneath his head. "I can't anymore.""Pop an Advil if you gotta, then get back here, 'cause I ain't done with you yet," Dean tells him, dragging his nails down Sam's thigh.Sequel to "A Tall, Dark Stranger".





	

**Author's Note:**

> The promised, smutty sequel! Hope you like it :)  
> Tell me what you think!

Sam feels a hand trailing slowly up the back of his left thigh, skimming the rise of his ass all the way to the center, between his legs, then back again with more force so Sam is unable to abstain from parting them.

"Dean," Sam groans, worn out and stupidly in love as he buries his face in the soft, white pillow beneath his head. "I can't anymore."

The hand on his thigh pauses, and blunt fingernails press into the tender flesh until Sam makes a sound of pained pleasure.

"Pop an Advil if you gotta, then get back here, 'cause I ain't done with you yet," Dean tells him, dragging his nails down Sam's thigh. Sam knows that red lines are forming where the nails dug into his skin, but he doesn't care. It's sort of like a piece of jewelry, those ornaments on his body.

Sam's whole body aches. His hole feels used and sore, his muscles tense from the multiple strenuous positions Dean had guided his body into during their many rounds of sex, and his voice is scratchy and croaked. It's a good thing Brady had forgone returning to their shared dorm room, because he would have probably been scarred for life. Sam and Dean are just _that_ creative.

As much as he likes to complain, Sam actually loves how Dean can wear him out then continue to abuse his poor self with pleasure even after Sam feels like he might pass out from it. It's one of those things Sam doesn't dwell on too much, because then he would have to think about other things and analyze every little aspect of their sex life and that is scary as hell when one takes into account the endless amount of fucked up weird shit they've gotten into over the years. They've probably invented a whole new set of kinks. Sam has never heard of someone who gets off on amulets they've given their big brother digging into their collarbone and leaving marks.

Sam heaves himself up by sheer will and maybe a little bit of Dean's helping hand under his chest, and rises to his palms and knees as Dean pats encouragingly at his butt. Sam's breath hitches when the patting turns a little more on the slapping side, then bites down on his puffy lower lip when the palm of Dean's hand makes a loud smacking noise as it collides rather sharply with his lower left cheek, where the trails of fingernail-scratched red lines decorate his pale skin.

"Up, up," Dean urges, pushing Sam's chest until Sam falls backwards with a massive groan of pain as his sore ass meets the mattress with brutal force. Dean shoves Sam's legs off the side of the bed and then braces both of his feet on Sam's lower back and, for all intents and purposes, kicks him out of bed. Sam nearly falls forward but manages to hold steady on his feet as he wobbles across the room, butt naked and leaking embarrassingly, to the set of drawers located knee-bruisingly beneath his twenty-dollar writing desk. He fumbles with the handle, cursing when it detaches from the drawer and stays in his hand. He fits it back into the splintering slot and tries again, and this time the drawer creaks open to reveal an assortment of papers Sam can't remember the purpose of, and a flower-printed cookie tin missing its lid, full of blister packs containing variously shaped and colored tablets.

He shuffles around in the tin and finally draws out a pack of green capsules of Advil that are still good with a victorious 'Aha!', popping one out and swallowing it dry with minimal effort since he can't really feel his throat anymore, anyway.

He shuts the drawer, wincing at the sound of something breaking – he really has to replace that set – and walks slowly with the caution of an eighty-year-old man back to the bed, where Dean is lying on his side, body propped up by an elbow, palm supporting his head and watching Sam with a half-amused, half-worried smile on his face. Sam quirks his lips up to show that he's fine, and Dean's smile flattens into an intense expression of desire that makes Sam hesitate a moment mid-step.

"I'll be good in half an hour," Sam informs him, remembering the waiting period for the drug to kick in. He lies down on his back beside Dean, hands resting on either side of his body and looking up at his brother.

Dean shakes his head. "You'll be good _now_ ," he tells Sam, no-arguing tone in place and all big-brother you-have-to-do-what-I-say.

Sam frowns obstinately, slapping Dean's hand away when it reaches down to push Sam's legs apart. " _Dean_."

"Dude, you got your word. Use it if you wanna stop, but otherwise shut the hell up," Dean shoots back impatiently, catching the slapping hand and pinning it to the mattress for a few seconds, pressing the meaning, before he lets go and resumes his previous act.

Sam blushes, because he remembers that word they had come up with when Sam had wanted to try more things and Dean had insisted on giving him a way out. It's a stupid word, but it works.

"You remember your word?" Dean asks, wavering, hand drawing back and a troubled expression shuttering his face, as if he's been forcing this on Sam, as if he could ever do anything to Sam that Sam doesn't want done to him.

Sam nods, not actually wanting to say it out loud because then Dean might stop.

"What is it?" Dean insists, because if there's anything Dean is, it's careful, it's mindful of Sam's feelings and desires. "Say it, Sammy. Just once. It won't count just this once."

"John," Sam relays obediently, face scrunching up because if there's anything that can break the mood when they're in the middle of business and panting and sweating and so utterly out of it, it's their Dad's name. It's inevitably. Of course it makes them stop. It's just so wrong. Not the incest part, obviously, since they've pretty much got that covered. It's different when it's with each other.

"Good," Dean nods to himself. "Say it again and I'll stop," he promises earnestly, but to Sam it sounds more like a threat. He had only used the word to stop Dean twice, and both times have been because their father has literally been ten seconds from walking in on them doing the nasty. Sam doesn't know what is more embarrassing – the fact that they use their Dad as some sort of an emergency brake to their sex life (which is pretty symbolic, in Sam's opinion) or how on both times he _had_ said it, Dean had taken a second too long to pull away, something regretful and longing in his eyes that Sam really wishes his own mind would stop trying to tie to Dean's unsurprising Daddy kink. Which, by the way, Sam is totally cool with. Dean is pretty when he begs.

Sam exhales harshly when three fingers slip back inside of him, shifting on the bed to disable their progress, or maybe feel them more clearly against his inner walls.

"Be _good_ ," Dean reminds him with a frustrated growl, pushing Sam's hips back where he wants them and thrusting the fingers all the way inside with force he usually reserves for plunging silver knives into werewolves' throats.

Sam's whole body jerks, his knees bend and fall open and his neck arches back, eyes shut tightly as he moans breathlessly.

"Or what?" he snipes through ruined vocal cords, because he loves this part, loves the back-and-forth, and Dean's voice fueled by rage. The little brother in him also loves talking back at Dean and rising his hackles.

"Or all the Advils in the world won't help once I'm done with you," Dean doesn't disappoint, and Sam flushes all over at the blatant tone. He shuts up, because with Dean you can never know, because Dean might actually do it. Dean has a way around words that Sam has always envied, so the specification of Advil might just mean Dean would pop over to the closest pharmacy and fake-buy another painkiller to do the job. Dean would never actually leave Sam in _that_ amount of pain.

Dean can't be hard already, not after the number of times they've had sex tonight and the proximity of his latest orgasm, but that doesn't stop him from starting an in-out motion with his fingers to the rhythm of Metallica's revision of 'Helpless', bruise-fast and completed with Dean's baritone humming.

Sam chokes on air and tries to hang on as his body twists and shudders, grounded by Dean's firm hand on his abdomen and crushing elbow between his pecs. Sam's own hands clutch the bedsheets for dear life, toes curling in the mess of blankets at the foot of the bed.

Sam's not hard, either. He can't. His body simply passed the maximum supply of hard-ons for a twelve-hour period and he's unable to actually come again. Probably won't be able to for the next thirty to forty-five minutes, at least. Maybe until the Advil kicks in.

Dean seems to be enjoying himself, at least. He scissors his digits, curling them over Sam's prostate, rubbing back and forth relentlessly.

He repositions his arm across Sam's chest and leans in to capture his lips in a surprisingly soft kiss, sweetly licking into Sam's open mouth with a quick, slick tongue, driving Sam crazy.

Sam moans helplessly as Dean's fingers abandon the rhythm and start thrusting in earnest, deep and hard and spread as wide as Dean can make them in the tight channel.

"Sammy," Dean breathes against Sam's lips, dipping in for one more slip of a tongue across Sam's tingling one before he rests his sweaty forehead against Sam's bangs-covered forehead, their breaths mingling in the small space between their faces.

Sam opens his eyes to see Dean's green ones open and looking at him. He can't see much from this proximity, everything is blurry and out-of-focus. He can _feel_ the streak of saliva connecting his lower lip to Dean's mouth, though, and that sends a rush of arousal through him.

Dean's amulet drags across Sam's ribs as Dean lowers his head to seal his lips over a pert nipple, and Sam gasps in pleasure as Dean sucks it into his mouth.

All the while, Dean's incessant fingers make Sam's legs quiver and his ass wish he had been smart enough to buy that cream with the numbing agent instead of the normal lube.

"You are so good like this, Sammy," Dean croons darkly, "So pretty spread out and flushed under your big brother."

Sam flushes deeper at the words.

"God, you should see yourself, blushing all over. You like that, don't you? You love it when I use you like that. Even when you feel like you can't handle it anymore. Especially when you can't take it anymore. You love it when I make you, don't you, baby? Letting big brother take care of you."

Sam groans softly and closes his eyes against the assault on his senses. Smelling Dean, tasting and feeling and hearing him, it's almost too much, but seeing Dean, seeing his flushed, freckled cheeks and the wicked gleam in his eyes, seeing his hand working between Sam's legs and his teeth closing around the hard nub of Sam's nipple, Sam just can't. If he does, he thinks he might fall apart. Or faint. Or do something stupid like say his word because he can't really process anything beyond Dean's demand that he remembers his word at all times.

Just as Sam begins to feel himself getting hard again, impossible as it seems that his body can even maintain that level of organized blood supply to any part of him, Dean suddenly pulls back all at once, fingers sliding out of Sam with an indecent slick-pop sound and teeth dragging Sam's nipple away from his body until they let go, the comforting weight of Dean's arm over his torso disappearing, leaving Sam feeling alarmingly afloat and light-headed.

"Wha-" he manages before Dean rolls over him, crushing him against the mattress momentarily and drawing a huff out of his compressed lungs. Dean lands on his feet gracefully beside the bed, much to Sam's disappointment.

"I gotta drain the lizard, Sammy. Where's the bathroom, again?" Dean says casually, as if he hasn't been finger-fucking Sam into oblivion just seconds before.

"Um," is Sam's elegant response, his eyes now open and staring incomprehensively at his brother.

Dean laughs. "Did I actually break you?" he teases.

"Jerk," Sam mutters, because this, at least, he remembers.

"Bathroom, bitch, where is it?"

Sam frowns. "Outside. Down the hall."

Dean's expression falls. "Seriously?"

"'fraid so," Sam answers apologetically, remembering the first time he has been introduced to the common bathrooms, and the horrified look he had given the sophomore who had shown him around. Living with only Dean and sometimes Dad for eighteen years has made him the exact opposite of a shower-snob or body-shy, but the idea of being vulnerable around unfamiliar players is still troubling.

"Damn it," Dean pouts.

"You should put something on," Sam adds unnecessarily, because Dean has already started rummaging through Sam's open closet. He pulls one of Sam's large gray hoodies over his head and steps into the pair of sweatpants Sam has left lying on the floor before he'd left for the party with Brady. It's ridiculously oversized on Dean, but Sam's brother doesn't seem to care as he turns the lock and throws the door open, exposing Sam's bruised, naked self to the empty hallway. Sam scrambles for the covers at his feet, pulling them up to his chin as he shouts a curse at Dean's retreating back. He can hear Dean's booming laughter echoing in the hallway as he holds the blanket around his body and hurries on shaky, numb legs to shut the door.

The next morning, Brady returns to the room just as Dean leaves, his wide eyes taking in Dean's ruffled appearance and the multiple hickeys on his neck and jaw, the satisfied grin and youthful saunter.

Wordlessly, Brady reaches for his pocket and pulls out his wallet. His fingers draw out a crumpled fiver, which he throws in Sam's triumphant face.


End file.
